To sweeten the pie, Max had told him, “My main man, we get out of here, I’m going to set you up in a penthouse, lots of white meat and all the white powder you could stuff up that massive nose.”
But the Crips, that was a different story.
Rufus said, “That Sino, he got a hard-on for yo’ ass, boss. He get out, he gonna try to waste yo’ ass in the craziness and shit.”
That worried Max a little till Rufus said, “No worries my man, they let him out, Sino gonna be washing his brown ass in de shower and, shit, I settle his jones right there.”
Meanwhile, Rufus finally filled him in on the escape plan. It was so shot full of holes, Max couldn’t believe it. In the smoke and mayhem of the riot, Rufus and crew were gonna hijack a laundry van and just mosey on out the main gate before full lockdown happened. They already had the uniforms, hidden away in a corner of the laundry room.
Could work, maybe, but Max was amazed. This was the plan they’d be working on for years? Max had figured they’d have a tunnel, a guy working on the inside, something. But he didn’t want to ruin the party by bringing up any, like, doubts. Besides, he figured sometimes you did better going with something so basic, so crude, no one would ever imagine you’d try it.
When Rufus asked, “Boss, can you handle hardware, yo?” Max nearly sneered. He was the guy who’d emptied a full clip into the meanest muthahs you’d ever meet. Yeah, he could handle hardware, yo. He told Rufus all about the Colombians he’d smoked that time in Queens. Actually, he’d only shot one guy, and it had been a wild lucky shot, but like a fish story it got bigger with each telling. In the latest incarnation he’d smoked three sick-asses all packing serious heat.
Max went, “Get me a Mach 10, it’s like my weapon of choice.”
Rufus stared again at this stone cold killer, said, “Sound like you good to go, boss.”
The Crips started the first step in what would be an out-and-out conflagration, burning their mattresses, taking a bull hostage. Later, the white supremacists cornered Max in the canteen. The leader, Arma, sitting Max down at his table, asked, “What’s the deal, dude?”
Max, delighted to be called dude, said, “Ready to rumble.”
“Ready? Man, it’s already started. The Crips are burning mattresses, getting everything riled up, and they’re coming for you first.”
Max, terrified but not showing it, said, “I guess we’ll just have to go medieval on their inferior asses.”
Arma asked, “Their top guy, that Sino, how good is he?”
Max gave his superior laugh, made a show of looking at his watch, said, “About now, he’s having the last shower of his life, he’s going clean down the drain. One of my boys is helping him soap up as we speak.”
Arma was impressed, said, “I’m impressed.” Then he said, “But speaking of your boys… the niggers… my boys are a little concerned how much you’re hanging with them.”
Max leaned over, whispered, “They’re gonna burn, and you my man, you’re gonna own this joint.”
He stifled a chuckle, thinking, What’s left of the fucking place.
Arma said, “You’re one cold cracker.”
Max, standing, said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, dude.”
Left him with his mouth hanging open.
Fifteen
“There’s an armor the city makes you wear and look at him defenseless, helmet dropped back blocks ago, no arm among enemies strong enough to string the arrow that could pierce his skin, rendering all cowards. Let us bow. No one bows.”
Sebastian was in New York. He did not want to be in fucking New York and he certainly did not want to be in New York with a homicidal Greek who smelled of olive oil all the time.
Yanni had never once let him out of his sight and two days after their first meeting had bought tickets to America, saying, “We get this done now.”
Sebastian was seriously afraid of the maniac. If he had demurred, he was sure the crazy bugger would have slit his throat. He tried to look on the bright side, maybe they would score some serious dosh off Angela. Assuming they could ever find her.
What did irritate Sebastian a tad – well, ok, a lot – was that Sebastian was paying the freight. Yanni had disappeared with the biggest of the paintings; it had turned out to be the real deal, a bloody Constable, and he’d promptly fenced it. He’d flung ten large at Sebastian and said, “Your share.”
Was he going to argue that the scoundrel had probably gotten a damn fortune for it, hell of a lot more than twenty K? He took the cash, and talk about damn cheek, Yanni made Sebastian pay for the tickets, in business class no less. Put a hell of a dent in the ten.
Yanni carried on scandalously on the plane, drinking champagne like it was water, leering at the hostesses and, when the in-flight movie came on, something starring Nicole Kidman, he kept nudging Sebastian and making lewd comments. Sebastian tried to act like he wasn’t with Yanni, knocking back gin and tonics like a good un and trying to make sympathetic eyes at the stewardesses, as if to say I’ve nothing to do with this cretin.
In New York the heat and humidity was fierce and as Sebastian wiped his brow, Yanni scoffed, “This is tipota, in Santorini we see this as mild spring day.”
Sebastian, his lined suit creased beyond repair, felt a hatred for this bounder like he’d never felt in his whole shallow life and resolved, soon as this business was concluded, he was going to kill the fucker slowly and whisper as he died, “That’s not heat, brother, it’s just a mild slashing of your olive stinking throat.”
Ah, the things to look forward to.
Then they were in a cab and heading for Queens. Who’d said anything about staying in Queens? Didn’t the fellow have the decency to consult him about their travel arrangements? He was planning on getting a couple of rooms at the Mansfield, a small hotel he’d read about in a cheap mystery novel once; it sounded classy and was right across the road from The Algonquin. Couldn’t ask for a better pedigree than that. But Yanni, lighting up a Karelia in the cab, didn’t care about pedigree. So off to Queens they went.
Blowing smoke in Sebastian’s face, Yanni said, “We stay with my family in Astoria, they help us track the she-devil. She has Greek blood, they will track her down.”
Sebastian finally found his voice, said, “Actually, old chap, I’d rather stay in midtown and we can meet up later, let you reunite with your family in peace.”
Yanni, his eyes as black as hell, squeezed Sebastian’s thigh, hard – the animal had a grip like a vise – and said, “You don’t make decisions. I tell you how it is, you say epaharisto poli. You get to leave when this is done, you understand, mallakas? ”
He did.
The family were a nightmare and, lordy, how many of them were they, enough to storm Manhattan by themselves… and noisy, radios blaring, everybody roaring in Greek, tons of kissing and hugging, only not for Sebastian, whom they looked at with derision. No one said a word to him. It was like My Big Fat Greek Wedding without the one-liners.
At dinner, more talk in Greek. It sounded like six arguments were going on at once. Sebastian couldn’t understand a thing, just wandered around, trying not to get in the way.
One of the uncles, he noticed, had his wallet sticking out of his back pocket, just begging to be snatched. Sebastian often wondered why people were careless with their valuables. Were they trying to give their money away? Out of sheer boredom, Sebastian snatched it, not expecting to find much. The guy’s hair was a mess and he was wearing a horrendous shirt open to his belly button, proudly displaying a chunky wooden necklace – not exactly the look of a man of wealth.
When the fellow discovered his wallet was missing there was the usual fuss with everyone talking at once, helping him look around for it. During the commotion, Sebastian managed to slip out of the apartment without Yanni seeing. He sprinted around the corner and then two more blocks, hopped a turnstile. A subway was at the station, ready to depart, and Sebastian yelled, “Hold the doors!”